Gemotions

The realtor’s voice, honeyed and professional, grated on Eleanor's ears. "Sentimental value, of course, is immeasurable, but…" Eleanor tuned her out. The old woman was going on about the history of the house. History was nothing compared to possibility.

She’d spent the last few weeks in a feverish, almost manic state, cataloging every object, every piece of furniture, evaluating their worth. The house was full of her grandmother's belongings. Not much, but enough to make it worth the trip. The old lady had always been generous, giving, and sharing. Not anymore.

She fingered the worn velvet cushion of a chaise lounge, picturing the cash it would bring. She calculated the amount the silverware would generate, mentally adding it to her ever-growing total. She had brought a truck, a large truck. She felt a lightness, an exhilaration, as if the house was already emptying itself for her, piece by piece.